


17 Short Stories from Date Tech

by renaissance



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Datekougyou | Date Tech, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Slice of Life, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't always win their games, but together, they're always the Iron Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: First Years / Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, here it is! Datekou Week, at last. I plan to upload a chapter of this fic each day, and each chapter contains two to three ficlets, each of which is connected in some way to its neighbours, but which are presented in a non-linear fashion. The title is in homage to my inspiration, the Simpsons episode "22 Short Films About Springfield," which in turn was a homage to Pulp Fiction. (This was originally going to have 22 stories, but, sometimes you've got to know when to stop.)
> 
> Anyway! I hope you enjoy my offering for this week. Also, a quick warning: the first vignette in this chapter contains no fewer than seventeen (hah! that was unintentional) instances of a very naughty word indeed. There's nothing explicit (hence the T rating), but you mightn't want to read this around other people.

* * *

**5**

* * *

 

It’s kind of embarrassing that Koganegawa finds him moping, but Sakunami’s had a rough week, the kind of week where you get to the end and just need to isolate yourself from everything and every _one_ , so he’s not exactly in the mood for Koganegawa’s unique brand of Loud and Intrusive. Sakunami doesn’t really get a say in the matter, though.

“Hey!” Koganegawa says, plonking himself down on the bench next to Sakunami. “What’s up?”

“Ah,” Sakunami says, “nothing much.”

“I just got out of maths,” Koganegawa says, powering through despite Sakunami’s attempt at radiating Don’t Talk To Me vibes. “We were doing geometry. It’s so hard, you know? It’s like, they expect us to—”

He keeps going, so Sakunami switches off and focuses on his pre-practice bento. They’ve still got a few minutes before practice starts, and Sakunami isn’t sure why Koganegawa sought him out here, on the benches beside the gym.

“—and I still don’t get that, um, the rule with the—Sakunami-kun, are you alright?”

Sakunami jerks his head up. “Yeah, fine,” he says quickly.

“You seem kinda quiet,” Koganegawa says.

“It’s been a long week,” Sakunami admits.

Koganegawa hums to himself, tilting his head back and inspecting the brickwork behind them. “You sure there’s nothing else on your mind?”

The thing about Koganegawa is that sometimes he can be _so_ dumb, but sometimes he stumbles on something brilliant by pure accident. He’s like that both on and off the court. But why did he have to flick his smart switch _now_?

“Nothing interesting,” Sakunami says, hoping that will deter him.

It doesn’t.

“It worries me when you’re worrying,” Koganegawa says, “if that makes sense… ?”

Sakunami sighs, physically feeling himself deflate. “It’s just—”

“Yeeees?” Koganegawa says, leaning over him.

It occurs to Sakunami then that, maybe, he can pass off his bigger worries—being the only first year starter on the team, his dropping grades from all the time he’s devoted to volleyball and his parents’ lectures—as something smaller. Literally.

“It’s just that, everyone on the team is so much taller than me,” he says. It _is_ something that bothers him sometimes, but he likes being a libero and he tells himself that getting any taller would be bothersome.

Koganegawa flops backwards, his long arms drooping by his side. “You’re just saying that because you’re sitting next to me, and I’m giant.”

“It’s not just you,” Sakunami says. “Pretty much _everyone_ is taller than me. It’s not hard.”

“So, you’re worried because you’re short?” Koganegawa asks. He straightens up like something’s occurred to him. “And people pay more attention to tall people!”

“Huh?”

“I read in the newspaper! There’s like, a—what do you call it? That thing where the line on the graph matches up.”

“Correlation,” Sakunami supplies.

“Right!” Koganegawa says. “A correlation between tall people getting jobs and—wait…”

“People are more likely to get jobs if they’re taller,” Sakunami says. “I know.” Like he needs reminding.

“But I’m sure short people get noticed more if they have more confidence, huh?” Koganegawa says.

Sakunami gets the feeling he should be a bit indignant, based on what Koganegawa’s implying. “You’re saying I’m not confident enough?”

“Oh, oh my god,” Koganegawa says, suddenly excited. “Futakuchi-senpai showed me this really cool game to boost your confidence! He said, yelling is like flying.”

“That doesn’t really make sense,” Sakunami says, “and I don’t really want to yell.”

“It’s not just yelling, Sakunami-kun,” Koganegawa says, and he gets a twinkle in his eye like a child in a candy store. “It’s _what_ you’re yelling.”

Sakunami sighs. “Go on, then.”

“It’s called the Penis Game,” Koganegawa says, and how can he say that with absolutely no trace of shame?

“I don’t want to play this game,” Sakunami says.

“No, come on, it’s awesome,” Koganegawa says. “You start by one person whispering _penis_ , and then the next person has to say it a bit louder, then a bit louder, until you’re yelling it! If you laugh too hard, or you get too shy, you lose.”

“I don’t want to do this at _all_ ,” Sakunami says. “We could get in trouble!”

Koganegawa has the nerve to laugh at that. “Come on! School’s out. Let’s play the Penis Game.”

“No,” Sakunami says.

“Penis,” Koganegawa whispers.

Another negative dies on Sakunami’s tongue as he opens his mouth. “Koganegawa-kun, this is a stupid idea, come on—”

“ _Please_ ,” Koganegawa says, turning on that stupid pout of his. He _knows_ Sakunami is weak to that.

“Ugh, fine,” Sakunami says. He clears his throat and glances around to make sure no-one’s watching. “ _Penis_.”

Koganegawa claps his hands together like a seal. “Penis!”

“Penis,” Sakunami says, a little louder than Koganegawa. He feels stupid. He feels stupider than he’s ever felt in his entire life.

“Penis!” Koganegawa says with great gusto.

Sakunami wonders if this is how Koganegawa feels every day of his life. He sighs. “Penis.”

It goes on like that, whispers turning to full-voiced words and edging dangerously towards shouts. Sakunami keeps pausing to check that there’s no-one around—although surely there’d still be people in the classrooms opposite to the gym?—until Koganegawa imposes a time limit between penises. Then, their attempts get louder and more frantic, and Sakunami finds himself getting way too caught up in the game.

So caught up, in fact, that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching, at their closest just as Sakunami presses his palms down onto the bench and yells.

“ _PENIS_!”

He registers the laughter before he has the courage to turn and pinpoint the source. Koganegawa looks mortified, and it takes all of Sakunami’s strength to redirect his own gaze—when he does, it lands on the third years, Kamasaki and Sasaya cackling, and Moniwa looking very much like he wishes he’d never had to witness this at all.

“What _was_ that?” Kamasaki asks, wiping a tear from his eye.

All of Koganegawa’s earlier enthusiasm is gone in the face of the third years. His mouth is hanging open, and he makes a sort of _guh_ sound, sticking his palms out defensively.

“It was his idea!” Sakunami finds himself explaining. “Like a… _confidence_ thing.”

“Yelling that sort of word makes you more confident?” Sasaya asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh,” Sakunami says.

“It’s just penis,” Koganegawa chimes in, having reclaimed some of his ability to function properly. “I mean, it’s not _any_ sort of word like—like that.”

“Just penis,” Kamasaki echoes. “Well, that’s alright, then.”

“Y-yeah,” Koganegawa stammers.

Sakunami is pretty sure _everyone’s_ surprised when Kamasaki clears his throat and, rolling back his shoulders and sticking his chest forward, hollers “PENIS!”

“Oh my god,” Sasaya says, gasping between laughs, “I think I need to try this.”

“You do!” Koganegawa enthuses, finally back at full strength.

“Penis,” Sasaya says, experimentally, and then again, louder.

For the first time, Sakunami notices Moniwa, who frets on a good day, but right now looks like he’s about to hit boiling point. Sakunami is about to suggest that they end the game, but Kamasaki seems to have caught on without an explanation, and shouts it again, a touch louder than Sasaya. Koganegawa looks overjoyed that his upperclassmen are joining in, rather than castigating him.

“Let’s save this for the weekend,” Moniwa suggests.

“PENIS!” Sasaya yells.

 _Then_ , Moniwa snaps. “I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH YOU AND YOUR PENIS!”

“I beg your pardon?”

The addition of a new voice to the mix makes everyone jump, and Sakunami is certain he flies at least an inch off the bench. There, standing with his hands on his hips, is Coach Oiwake, looking _murderous_.

“Coach!” Moniwa shrieks. “I’m sorry, but I tried to sto—”

Oiwake’s frown deepens. “Ten laps around the gym, all of you!”

They’re in no position to argue, so, sighing, Sakunami puts his bento back in his bag and heads to the changing room with the others.

“Hey,” Koganegawa says, “Feeling better?”

“If anything,” Sakunami says with a hesitant laugh, “this is worse.”

 

* * *

**13**

* * *

 

Koganegawa rings the doorbell once, twice, before he's about to give up and go home. He probably doesn't even have the right address. One of the upperclassmen probably gave him the wrong address as a joke. If he’s lucky, it’s just a random house, but more likely a witch lives behind the door and is waiting for him to ring the doorbell a third time before she can let him in and act all friendly before turning him into a pie for her five pet black cats.

He hesitates a moment with his finger hovering a few millimetres above the doorbell, wondering whether to hasten his demise or try to run while he can, when the door swings open. He jumps back, letting out a squawk. It’s just Obara, though—and it’s weird to see him in such casual clothes.

“Hello!” Koganegawa manages. “I’m sorry if I’m late!”

“It’s fine,” Obara says. “In fact, it’s probably better that you’re late.”

“How come?” Koganegawa asks.

Obara laughs. “Come on,” he says, gesturing down the hallway to a room at the other end of the house. Koganegawa can’t see what’s going on inside, but he can hear enough yelling to tell that, yeah, the rest of his team is in there.

Apparently, these movie nights are a regular thing, a sort of team bonding exercise that’s meant to bring everyone closer. It’s strictly unofficial, but it’s been passed down through different generations. As Koganegawa slips his shoes off, he takes a deep breath, preparing himself to make his own mark on team history.

When he gets closer to the room, he hears a stage-whispered “he’s coming,” and the lights flicker out on the other side of the door.

“Is this part of the atmosphere?” Koganegawa asks.

“You’ll see,” Obara says.

He slides the door open, and Koganegawa is met with the sight of Futakuchi with a hood pulled low over his head and a torch held below his chin.

“Is this meant to be scary?” Koganegawa asks.

Futakuchi glowers. He looks particularly grumpy with the way the light’s falling on his face. “It’s your first movie night,” he says, “so this is your initiation.”

“Why couldn’t you come last year, anyway?” Fukiage asks.

“I had physio appointments on Fridays,” Koganegawa says. “It was—”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Futakuchi says, “we’re in the middle of something.”

“Oh,” Koganegawa says. “Initiation?”

“That’s right,” Futakuchi says, slipping back into his easy smirk. He sounds sort of like a narrator. “For someone’s first Volleyball Club Movie Night, it’s traditional that we watch a _horror film_.”

Koganegawa shrugs. “That’s fine! I’m not easily scared.”

There’s a laugh from behind Futakuchi, and Koganegawa peers around him to see the vague outline of Sakunami covering his mouth.

“Come _on_ , Kogane-kun,” Sakunami says, “you couldn’t sleep for days after you watched The Exorcist.”

“That was _last_ year,” Koganegawa says huffily, “and this is _this_ year!”

“Can we get on with the film?” Onagawa asks from somewhere in the darkness.

“Can I turn the lights on yet?” Obara asks. “I don’t want anyone to trip and break anything.”

Futakuchi grimaces, changing the way the shadow falls on his face. “ _Fine_ ,” he says. “Your loss.”

Obara flicks on the lights, and Koganegawa worms his way into a place on the couch next to Fukiage, who shifts to make room for him. “What’s with the lighting, anyway?” he asks.

At that, Futakuchi dives in front of the tv and pulls out an old videotape. “Setting the mood,” he says. “Now, we’ve come to Obara’s house tonight for one reason—he’s the only one who has a video player.”

“No _way_ ,” Onagawa says.

Koganegawa doesn’t get it. One by one, everyone seems to be coming to some conclusion he’s missed.

“Ladies,” Futakuchi says, and Nametsu shoots a thumbs up from a chair in the far corner, “and gentlemen, I have obtained a copy of Ring, on tape.”

“I’m out,” Fukiage says, but Sakunami grabs him by the hem of his shirt and drags him back down.

Koganegawa lets out a laugh. It can’t be that bad, right? He’s never heard of Ring, but then, there’s something about the rest of his team and movies. It’s probably because they watch one together every two weeks that they’ve got this sort of affinity.

Futakuchi slips the tape in, and for a while it’s okay, but soon Koganegawa finds himself getting a little—just a _bit_ frightened. He turns his attention away from the screen and starts watching the people around him instead. Fukiage is _terrified_ , and Obara’s shaking a bit too, distracting himself with his phone. Onagawa, for all his calmness, has a hand over his eyes, and Futakuchi gets the most into it, screeching in a way that makes him seem almost like he wants people to think he’s more scared than he is. Sakunami’s hanging off the edge of Nametsu’s chair, and disturbingly, they’re _clapping and grinning_ in all the scary parts—at least, Koganegawa assumes they’re the scary parts. He’s not looking at the screen if he can help it.

The only person who, so far, hasn’t broken a sweat, is Aone. He’s sitting in an armchair to himself, his face serene—or as serene as it ever looks—taking in everything in the film without flinching. It’s sort of admirable. Koganegawa wishes he could be as cool as Aone.

He keeps his eyes resolutely away from the screen, drowning out the sounds on the screen by trying to get a song stuck in his head. He does register, however, Futakuchi whispering, “Here it comes!”

At that point, Koganegawa forces himself to look back at the screen, to prove a point, that he’s not scared, no way, but then Ryuuji’s tv turns on by itself, and—

“—and now, let’s go to the weather!”

Koganegawa blinks. The view on Ryuuji’s tv seems to be a news broadcast, detailing the weather over Sendai in October of 1998. It’s not scary at _all_.

“No _way_!” Nametsu yells, throwing her hands up in the air.

Futakuchi looks furious, clambering off his nest of cushions the floor and frantically pausing the tape, ejecting it from the player.

“Was that meant to happen… ?” Koganegawa asks, rubbing the side of his head. It seemed like it matched the tone of the film, but from the way everyone’s reacting, something’s gone wrong.

“No!” Futakuchi shouts, shaking the tape in front of him, as if that’ll do any good. “Sadako crawls out of the well and out of the screen, and—Obara, where the fuck did you get this dodgy piece of crap?”

Obara shrugs apologetically. “My aunt’s attic,” he says.

“And you didn’t think to _check_?” Futakuchi asks.

“Do I need to bring up the time we went to watch The Fellowship of the Ring at your house but you put in some idol DVD instead?” Onagawa says.

“First of all, that was my sister’s,” Futakuchi says snippily. “Second of all, it wasn’t a _twelve-year-old videotape_.”

“Maybe rings are just cursed,” Koganegawa suggests.

“ _Third_ ,” Futakuchi says, ignoring him, “I _still_ don’t know which one of you took the Fellowship home, but I’m _still_ missing it from my collection!”

“Put it back in,” Sakunami suggests. “See if it comes back on after.”

Futakuchi acquiesces without a word, shoving the tape back in the player so forcefully that Obara flinches. Onagawa grabs the remote and fast-forwards a few minutes: it flicks back to Ring after a moment, just in time to watch Ryuuji dying.

“She taped over the best bit,” Sakunami says mournfully.

“Wait,” Onagawa says, pulling his phone from his pocket, “Obara, do you have an HDMI cable? We can just watch it online.”

They bustle around, plugging Onagawa’s phone into the tv and fussing with it while the film buffers.

“Well, this has been a crap initiation night,” Futakuchi says, draping himself dramatically over the edge of the couch.

“I wanted to see Kogane-kun freak out,” Nametsu says, and Koganegawa’s almost worried at how dejected she sounds.

“I wouldn’t have freaked out, you know,” he says, trying not to stumble over the words. “I’m not susceptible to—”

Then, from the other side of the room, there’s a deep, booming roar, and Koganegawa can take pride in the fact that he’s not the only one who jumps—he still screams louder than anyone, though.

Aone leans back in his seat, looking satisfied. “There,” he says. “Initiation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss the pain of borrowing a VHS from the local video store and rewinding it all the way from the end only to find that the last customer had taped over the best bits. Leave a comment and feel free to chat to me about anything and everything Datekou!
> 
> (Also. I genuinely can't believe I made it through writing that first one hahahahahahha oh my god I was laughing so much, why did I do this)


	2. Day 2: Second Years / Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all... I forgot to acknowledge Viv here, who's been giving me excellent ideas for this week and generally acting as my beta. Thanks!! And my partner in crime San, who's co-running Datekou Week and doing most of the mod stuff! You're awesome!!! #aonecheersquad
> 
> Second: I know, I know, I said this was a genfic, but, uhhh, there's a bit of EnnoFuta and Sakunami/Nametsu (SakuName?!) in this chapter, established relationship stuff... I was assured that this is expected of me by now but I'm still a bit nervous about it, especially sticking an inter-team ship in a Datekou genfic... but I'm weak, okay. So, just preparing you beforehand, because I hate the whole "surprise ship!" thing, haha.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

**3**

* * *

At first, Onagawa doesn’t notice it.

When he finds a card in his locker, he doesn’t think much of it—he’s been confessed to once before, not that he ever bothered to follow it up. Come to think of it, that might be why he’s not been confessed to since. Still, the card doesn’t have any elaborate declarations on it, just a cut-out picture of a pair of bell-bottom jeans from a magazine. He chucks it in the nearest bin and moves on.

A week later, there’s a drawing of a pair of bell-bottoms slipped inside of his maths notebook. A few days after that, someone leaves a magazine in his gym bag with a spread on seventies fashion. And the next day, there’s an email from an address which he doesn't recognise, empty except for a gif attachment. Against his better judgement, he opens the gif—it’s of a bum, perfectly looped so that it never once seems to falter on its endless side-to-side trajectory.

After that, Onagawa starts noticing it.

People glance at him in the corridors, cover their mouths and whisper behind their hands when he passes. Even one of his teachers seems to be looking at him a little funny, although it could just be his imagination.

He’s never been bullied before, although he’s not sure what the bell-bottoms and the bum have to do with it. He’s not even sure if it _is_ bullying, or just a weird social phenomenon that’ll pass when his haircut becomes fashionable again, or whatever.

There’s another drawing of bell-bottoms, though—this time in his history book. He notices it right before practice, too, so it’s fresh on his mind when he enters the changing room.

First thing through the door, his eyes land on Futakuchi and Obara, who jump when they see him, and Futakuchi shoves something into his gym bag.

“Okay,” Onagawa says, “what gives?”

“What do you mean?” Futakuchi says, a bit too quickly. He’s a shit liar.

“You’re up to something,” Onagawa says. “Everyone is up to something and no-one’s telling me.”

“Maybe you’re just imagining it,” Obara says, a bit more slyly than he can usually manage.

Onagawa treats them with his best scowl. “I’m not stupid,” he says. “I know there’s some joke about me and bell-bottoms, but—”

“Pantalons,” Futakuchi says, cutting Onagawa off.

Futakuchi says it almost reflexively, cringing a bit afterwards like it was something he didn’t mean to say. That only makes Onagawa more curious. “What’s the difference?” he asks.

“There’s no difference, technically,” Obara says. “It’s just, in this particular case, the joke is about pantalons.”

“Damn it, Obara,” Futakuchi says. Onagawa is beginning to pick up that this is something he’s not meant to know.

“Here,” Obara says, giving Onagawa a pitying look and reaching into Futakuchi’s gym bag. Futakuchi tries to slap his hand away, but Obara is having none of it. He emerges from the bag with a tablet, and unlocks it, holding a youtube screen up to Onagawa.

“What’s this meant to be?” Onagawa asks.

“It’s a song about pantalons,” Obara says. “Just listen.”

Onagawa does as he’s told, and a few seconds in he recognises the gif of the bum that’s still sitting in his inbox. “Which one of you emailed this to me?”

“Just watch,” Futakuchi says—which is as good as a “yes.”

“I don’t get it,” Onagawa says. “What’s the point in associating me with this song?”

“Are you _dense_?” Futakuchi asks, flicking Onagawa’s forehead. “Look at his _hair_.”

Onagawa pulls the tablet closer to his face and peers at the lead singer. “Okay, so there’s a bit of a resemblance,” he says.

“A _lot_ of a resemblance,” Obara says.

“You might as well have been separated at birth,” Futakuchi adds.

As the video keeps playing, Onagawa thinks about how best to deal with this. He doesn’t want it to spread so far that even the teachers start to associate him with pantalons, and it’s probably already too late for him to worry about the girls in his class. The only way he can really see himself dealing with it is by—

The song ends. “Well?” Futakuchi prompts.

“I don’t know why this is such a joke,” Onagawa says. “It’s a good song.”

“Seriously?” Obara asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, whatever floats your boat,” Futakuchi says.

Onagawa just smirks at them. “I’m going to get changed,” he says.

“Okay, _Pantalons_ ,” Futakuchi says. He pauses for a second before bursting into laughter.

And that weekend, Onagawa goes out to Sendai city and buys five pairs of cheap pantalons. He downloads Teikoku’s entire discography and listens to it as regularly as possible. He talks his mum out of forcing him to go to the hairdresser.

He’s going to _own_ this.

 

* * *

**2**

* * *

Intimidation, Obara thinks, is a funny word. He wouldn’t call himself an easily intimidated person, nor would he say he was ever a shrinking violet, or the person who stuck to the edge of the crowd.

But it’s hard _not_ to give up a little bit of his presence when he’s around Futakuchi and Aone. They’re loud—Futakuchi, quite literally, but Aone is loud in stature, in the way he fills up a room with his static glare and his sheer strength.

Obara and Aone are tall, so they’ve immediately been drafted into the starting line-up, training with the third and second years—well, the ones who weren’t shunted aside to make room for them. Obara feels a little bad for the third years who were benched, but he loses that feeling quickly when he’s on court. Futakuchi isn’t a starter yet, because he made the mistake of calling himself the ace to the ace’s face. It’s a bit of a small mercy for Obara.

Still, he spends most of his time sticking to Onagawa, another quiet second year.

“Don’t they intimidate you sometimes?” he asks Onagawa, feeling introspective as they pause for water.

“Who?” Onagawa asks. Sometimes it seems like he’s not quite in the room with the rest of them.

“Those two,” Obara says, gesturing to where Aone and Futakuchi are standing with some of the second years.

Onagawa shrugs. “Aone’s pretty scary,” he says. “Futakuchi’s just fucking annoying.”

Obara’s not so sure about that. He diminishes around them, becomes part of the background. Onagawa doesn’t seem like _he_ diminishes, but then, Onagawa’s not a particularly loud person.

“Anyway, don’t get so wound up about it,” Onagawa adds. “It’s not worth it.”

“Yeah,” Obara says.

Onagawa puts his water bottle down and heads off, but Obara stays where he is, content to ponder in silence for as long as it takes.

He’s surprised, then, that Moniwa peels away from a larger group and comes to sit beside him. Moniwa is the kindest second year, and there are whispers that he’ll be captain in a few months. Obara thinks that’s probably a good idea. Moniwa goes out of his way to make people feel comfortable and welcome—which is what he’s doing now.

“How’s it going, Obara?” he asks.

“Ah,” Obara says. “Just fine.”

Moniwa hums. “You know, when I started here, I was nervous too.”

“I’m not—” Obara begins, but stops himself when he sees Moniwa’s expression.

“Everyone’s so much taller than me,” Moniwa continues, “that I thought I’d never be able to compete on the same level as them. But I’m guessing that’s not it for you.”

Obara shrugs.

“It’s daunting being around people with large personalities,” Moniwa says. “Is that it?”

“Yeah,” Obara says. “A bit of it.”

“You’re a good player,” Moniwa says, “and the upperclassmen know it. You don’t need to be loud for people to respect you.”

“Thanks,” Obara says, a bit dumbly, because he’s not sure how to form proper sentences in the wake of such an efficient pep talk.

“They’re a bit much, aren’t they?” Moniwa says. “Ah, just between you and me—I’ve been asked to take over as Captain after Inter High.”

“I had heard rumours,” Obara admits.

Moniwa sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to do it. I’m keeping myself up late with worry, though. I don’t know how I’m going to keep up with the first years.”

Obara laughs a bit at that, but Moniwa seems to take it as a criticism. “Oh!” he says. “I didn’t mean—not you, you’re no trouble at all! Futakuchi, though, and Onagawa, too…”

Moniwa trails off, and Obara feels at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to comfort someone more senior than him—it’s not something he’s ever contemplated or prepared for. Thankfully, though, Moniwa seems to get another idea, and picks up the conversation again.

“You’ll look out for them for me, won’t you?” he asks.

Obara frowns. “In what way?”

“Keep them in line when I’ve got my hands full,” Moniwa elaborates. “But—oh! Don’t be afraid to get in there with them. You can probably be sly too, if you try.”

“Are you sure you want to be suggesting that?” Obara asks, his mouth curling into a smile. “You know, I could be even worse than Futakuchi.”

Moniwa slaps him on the back—well, it’s more of a gentle pat, but it’s the thought that counts. “But for me, you won’t be,” he says.

“No,” Obara agrees. “I won’t.”

 

* * *

**12**

* * *

It’s raining.

Normally, this would not be a problem. On any other day, Futakuchi would probably welcome the rain—he’s always been the sort of person who loves going out in the rain and stepping in puddles at the perfect angle to splash the people around him—and, okay, maybe that’s a _little_ bit mean-spirited, but what else is the point of rainy days?

Today, though, it’s _pouring_ , and Futakuchi is sulking.

The roads are flooding and there’s a stupid tree down on the stupid train line that Futakuchi’s stupid boyfriend lives on, and he’s being stupidly polite and apologetic about the whole thing, saying, “Trust me, Kenji, I’d rather be anywhere than stuck in my house today,” but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone and ruined the whole day by being so lovely and perfect and willing to help his parents put buckets under leaks in the ceiling and mop up the room where a tree blew over and broke the window.

It’s probably the very fact that Ennoshita is being so nice about it that makes Futakuchi want to scream. Because today was meant to be the _perfect_ double date, and it would have gone out with a hitch, if the second half of one of the couples was rude enough to show up, despite everything.

Futakuchi’s stuck waiting at the station, because he knows the moment he leaves his umbrella will break and he’ll get sodden. It’s another five minutes before Nametsu shows up, shielded in a raincoat and gumboots, and with an umbrella twice her size.

“Sorry, Futakuchi!” she says, putting down her umbrella as she comes under shelter. “All the buses are running late.”

Futakuchi frowns. “Where’s Sakunami?”

“Ah,” Nametsu says, her face falling. “His house flooded. He won’t make it, but, that’s okay, right? It’ll be fine with just us and—”

“Chikara’s house took a beating too,” Futakuchi says. “Guess it’s just us. ”

Nametsu’s shoulders slump. “Not that I don’t like you, or anything,” she says, “but this was meant to be a _double_ date.”

“Look, I’m as disappointed as you are,” Futakuchi says. “We can still get lunch, though.”

“Sure,” Nametsu says. “But dessert’s not happening in this weather.”

“What, you’re _cold_?” Futakuchi teases. In response, Nametsu pulls her raincoat closer around her and sticks out her tongue.

They’ve got a reservation for four at a fairly fancy restaurant that Sakunami picked, but they look like a couple of bedraggled teenagers, not fit to be dining in such class. It’s a long walk to the restaurant through the rain, and their umbrellas do next-to-nothing, so by the time they get there they’re even more deshevelled.

“You sure this is the place?” Futakuchi asks.

“I think so,” Nametsu says. “Saku-kun sent me an article about ideal restaurants for your first date, and this looks like the picture.”

“Do your parents know he’s not coming today?” Futakuchi asks. He’d only agreed to the double date idea because Nametsu’s parents are weird about boys and only let her go on dates if there’s another couple present. Conveniently, she’d neglected to mention to them that the Other Couple she’d asked were, in fact, both boys. The only time they let her around boys is at movie nights, and that’s because she convinced them that the team has a second female manager.

“Ah,” Nametsu says. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Futakuchi echoes. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“Shut up,” Nametsu says, “it’s not an admirable quality.”

Futakuchi just shrugs, pushing open the door to the restaurant and leaving his umbrella in a basket by the door. They’re greeted by a waiter who gives them a barely-restrained filthy look.

“Reservation for Sakunami,” Futakuchi says, flashing the waiter his best grin.

The waiter flicks through a notepad. “Ah,” he says, clearly biting back a harsher tone. “Sakunami, table for four?”

“That’s right,” Nametsu says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

They’re led to a table for four at the back of the restaurant, away from all the windows, but Futakuchi can still hear the sound of rain outside. He sort of wishes he were out there carefully planning the trajectory of puddle splashes to aim just above Nametsu’s gumboots, but it’s not so bad in here, and the food looks good. That is, until he sees the _prices_.

“Nametsu,” he says under his breath, “I can’t fucking afford _any_ of this.”

When Nametsu looks up from her menu, Futakuchi is sure that his eyes are just as wide as hers. “ _Neither_ ,” she whispers. “What are we going to do?”

“We could just leave,” Futakuchi suggests.

“The waiter is staring at us,” Nametsu says.

They wait a few minutes, but neither of them can think of what to do. The menu is five pages long, and if Futakuchi looks down at it he gets terrified all over again and has to look away. Nametsu’s gaze keeps darting anxiously towards the door, but any attempt at escape is curtailed by the waiter approaching them.

“What can I get you for your entrées?” he asks.

 _Entrées_. That’s the precise moment that Futakuchi knows they need to get the hell out of there.

“One second,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and pretending to answer it. “Hello, Ennoshita-san?”

Pause.

“You—you can’t make it?”

Pause.

“W-what do you mean, you can’t do this anymore?” he asks, pulling a stricken face. “You’re my one and only!”

“Oh,” Nametsu says, “my phone’s ringing too!”

“I can’t live without you!” Futakuchi says, probably louder than is acceptable in a restaurant like this.

“Sakunami-kun? You can’t come?” Nametsu says, her face twisting into a frown. She stays quiet for a long while. “ _NO_! You and Ennoshita-san? It can’t be true!”

“You’ve _betrayed_ me,” Futakuchi says, even louder. “Maybe I don’t _want_ you to make it to lunch!”

“I _HATE_ YOU!” Nametsu shrieks, on the verge of tears—Futakuchi is impressed. “I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!”

Futakuchi angrily “hangs up” and shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Nametsu, we’re _leaving_.”

“Right behind you.” She puts her own phone away and glances at the waiter. “Sorry,” she says, her voice all sweetness as she wipes a tear from her eye.

Every single patron in the restaurant is staring at them as they dash to the exit. They grab their umbrellas, not bothering to put them up before they run out onto the street. They make it a block away before pausing under an awning. Futakuchi’s soaked through, hair in his eyes and every step he takes squelching with the water in his shoes.

“Stop, stop,” he says, breathless. “That was too much.”

“That was such a great idea!” Nametsu says, clapping her hands together. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“Come on,” Futakuchi says, “it was your acting that sold it. How’d you learn to fake-cry like that?”

“Three older brothers,” Nametsu says, shrugging. “Anyway, _Ennoshita-san_? Since when have you ever—”

“Wait,” Futakuchi says, “my phone’s ringing, for real.”

Caller ID tells him it’s Ennoshita, and Futakuchi somehow feels the need to put on a straight face.

“Hey,” Ennoshita says, “the train lines are being cleared, so I think I can make it later… ?”

“Oh,” Futakuchi says.

“I might miss lunch,” Ennoshita adds.

“Don’t worry,” Futakuchi says, “we missed lunch anyway. Sakunami couldn’t make it either, and the restaurant was so expensive that me and Nametsu pretended you two had ditched us for each other to get out of there.”

“That sounds sort of unnecessary,” Ennoshita says.

Futakuchi rolls his eyes—a gesture that’s lost over the phone. “Whatever. It was fun.”

They agree that Ennoshita will try to get there as soon as he can, but there’s no rush. When Futakuchi hangs up, he sees Nametsu putting her phone away.

“I texted Saku-kun what happened,” she says. “His reply was: _wtf? Why am I friends with you two_.”

“Ah, he likes us,” Futakuchi says. He frowns. “Well, he likes _you_.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Nametsu says loudly, blushing as she punches him in the arm, “we should get a _proper_ lunch.”

Futakuchi glances across the road at a crowded food stall. “Takoyaki?”

“Well,” Nametsu says, “it’s certainly cheap.”

Futakuchi wields his umbrella like a lance, holding it out in front of him as he pushes it open. He gives Nametsu his best grin. “If it’s not,” he says, “we can pretend we’re a couple and then break up noisily in the middle of that queue.”

“Oh,” Nametsu says, “you’re _on_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onagawa's nickname, plus a link to the video, is all explained [here](http://tsukishimacest.tumblr.com/post/100401267348/hello-friends-ch127-is-out-in-english-which-means). Obara's section is based on his current concern. And, did I make one of the prompts "weather" just so I could write a self-indulgent rain scene? We'll never know. The two sets of prompts were matched up randomly, though, so I didn't know which first-column prompt it'd go with. Anyway.
> 
> Please leave a comment! Hmu if second years also make you Cry Every Time.


	3. Day 3: Third Years / Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a quick break from all the funny stuff this chapter to bring you a whole load of third year angst. You're welcome.
> 
> (Also I just quickly have to immortalise that this is in fact the 17th Haikyuu!! fic I've posted. I honestly didn't plan that. How cool... !)

* * *

**11**

* * *

 

It’s nearing midnight when Kamasaki wakes up in a panic—and, what was he even thinking, going to bed so early? He’s barely aware of his own actions as he opens his laptop to check if Moniwa and Sasaya are online. It’s his default, these days—he’s got plenty of friends, a guy like him, but he hasn’t been through as much with them as he has with his teammates.

Kamasaki suddenly feels like the baby of the group, opening skype to see 236 messages from their group chat. They’re both very much online, while he’d been sleeping like a chump.

 _hi_ , he types, _i couldn’t sleep_.

Straight away, the little pencil icon flicks into motion with Moniwa’s screen name—a bear kaomoji—floating above it. _Want to talk about it?_

“Yeah,” Kamasaki says aloud, staring at his screen.

Sasaya’s still typing, but Kamasaki presses the call button anyway. Moniwa’s screen lights up first, showing his dark bedroom with a single light on by the computer, then Sasaya’s. He’s got his lights blaring, no respect for his neighbours who might be trying to sleep.

“What’s up?” Sasaya asks.

“Kamachi’s scared, huh?” Moniwa says, his eyes flickering up to the camera for the briefest of moments.

“Huh?” Kamasaki says. “No way, I’m not—”

“That’s generally why people have trouble sleeping,” Sasaya interrupts. “They overthink things, things that wouldn’t really bother them any other time, but that become worse at midnight when you’ve got nothing to distract you.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Kamasaki grumbles.

Moniwa frowns. “Look, this isn’t the time for psychoanalysis, Sasaya. Let’s try to take his mind off it.”

“Don’t talk like I’m not here!” Kamasaki snaps—he regrets it when he watches Moniwa flinch away from the camera, just a bit.

“Inside voices,” Sasaya says.

“Says the guy with his lights on,” Kamasaki says.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sasaya says, “should I turn them off so that we can hold a seance and tell ghost stories?”

“Let’s not tell ghost stories,” Moniwa says.

Kamasaki leans back in his chair and takes a moment to stare at the ceiling. He only partially registers Sasaya saying something about Moniwa being frightened of almost everything, and Moniwa protesting that he’s not frightened of ghosts, he’s just sick of Sasaya’s awful storytelling.

“Hey, Kamasaki,” Sasaya says. “Don’t fall asleep on us.”

“I’m not,” Kamasaki tells the ceiling. Slowly, he brings himself back upright. “Hey, have you two decided what you’re doing next year?”

“Oh _no_ ,” Sasaya says, “not the Future Talk.”

“We have to have this conversation eventually,” Moniwa says with a shrug. “I’ve—I’ve applied to a couple of universities, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

“Education, right?” Sasaya asks.

Moniwa nods. “And a couple of environmental engineering courses, too. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“I applied for some engineering courses too,” Sasaya says. “But I’ll be lucky to get into a technical college.”

“Your marks are good, aren’t they?” Kamasaki asks.

He’d always been under the impression that Sasaya, like Moniwa, was always on top of his schoolwork. They’re in the same class and do homework together all the time—Kamasaki, on the other hand, barely bothers with homework, because he knows he’s destined for some sort of manual labour once he’s out on his arse after high school.

“Sure,” Sasaya says, “but good _enough_?”

“You shouldn’t doubt yourself,” Moniwa says, and—oh, that’s his Captain Voice. “You’ve worked hard.”

“A bit,” Sasaya concedes.

Kamasaki could almost laugh. He came here in a spin, reaching blindly for reassurance, but now it’s Sasaya who sounds almost vulnerable.

“That’s not the best way to think about it,” Moniwa says. “Don’t focus on what you _haven’t_ done—because if you _know_ you’ve done a lot—”

“Hey,” Kamasaki says, “it could be worse. You could be _me_.”

“Oh, come on now,” Moniwa says. “Let’s not make this into a contest.”

“No, listen,” Kamasaki says. “I’ve never gotten an A in my life. I got a B in phys ed last trimester.”

“You’re good at _other_ things,” Moniwa says. “Remember when I accidentally tripped on my own box of spilled nails in woodshop? Or when I hit myself in the face with the ball when I tried to play goalie in soccer?”

Kamasaki shakes his head. “No, idiot, because I’m not in your class.”

“I filled him in, though,” Sasaya says. “I’d never miss out on a good gossip.”

“You sound like my grandmother,” Moniwa says.

“Huh,” Sasaya says. “Usually people compare me to their grand _father_.”

“You’re both old,” Kamasaki says. “Sasaya, you _are_ a grandfather, and Moniwa—you worry too much.”

“I’m not the one worrying now,” Moniwa retorts.

They settle into an uneasy silence. It’s true—Moniwa _does_ fret, cares much more about other people than himself, but right now he’s the most put-together out of all of them. It’s admirable just how much he has his life mapped out to the smallest detail, prepared for anything because he knows he won’t cope well if he isn’t.

Kamasaki could never be like that. He takes everything one step at a time, and it’s a miracle if he’s got his shit together a week in advance. Except when it comes to volleyball. He makes a bit more of an effort there, more for his team than himself.

But he knows he’s not smart, and that he can’t compete on that level with his friends. He’s weirdly at peace with it.

“We’re all getting old,” Sasaya says. “We’re graduating in three weeks. Tiny Sakunami has a girlfriend. Futakuchi is the fucking _team captain_.”

“That’s old news,” Moniwa says. “Anyway, Futakuchi’s doing a good job. He has Aone supporting him.”

Kamasaki lets out a laugh. “I wonder if Aone’s more trouble than he’s worth as vice. The first years next year are gonna be _terrified_ of him.”

“Until they find out what a lovely person he is,” Moniwa scolds. He rubs a hand over his eyes, sighing. “Things change, people get older… it’s not—it’s not anything new.”

“It’s new for us,” Sasaya says.

It strikes Kamasaki just how much he respects them. “You two,” he says, “don’t let us lose contact next year, whatever it is we end up doing.”

“Never,” Sasaya says.

“Never,” Moniwa agrees.

And because he doesn’t want to leave himself out, Kamasaki feels himself grinning as he makes the easiest promise he’s ever had to make.

“ _Never_.”

 

* * *

**1**

* * *

 

It’s three weeks since Moniwa joined Date Tech’s volleyball club, and he still feels daunted every time he steps into the gym. At last count, he was 168.7 centimetres tall, and he thinks the gym’s ceiling has at _least_ ten metres on him.

And that’s not to mention the other players on the team—of course, coming to Date Tech, he knew that joining their volleyball club would mean coming up against the “impregnable fortress,” but Moniwa privately thinks that nothing could have prepared him for just how far a few centimetres can stretch. He still hasn’t spoken to the other first years, let alone anyone other than the captain and vice. And the vice captain is their only other setter, so he’d told Moniwa: _get ready_.

Because, of course, third years have to retire in the middle of the year. Which means that in a few months, Moniwa’s going to be a starter.

“Hey,” comes a voice from high above Moniwa, “you’re zoning out there.”

“Oh,” Moniwa says, glancing up. It hits him that he’s been fretting in the middle of practice, staring at the net with a ball gripped between his flat palms and whitening knuckles. “Um…”

“Are you alright?” someone else asks.

Moniwa tells himself that if he doesn’t look away from the net they’ll think he’s weird, and how is he meant to have any credibility as a setter if he can’t connect with his team?

“I’m fine!” he says quickly, pulling the ball closer to his chest and swivelling to face the others.

He recognises them as two of the other first years, Kamasaki and Sasaya, both taller than him. Kamasaki always rolls his sleeves up way too high and gets a lot of uniform slips, but it also makes him look like a thug, which terrifies Moniwa more than he’d care to admit. Sasaya is much closer to Moniwa’s height, and a lot less scary, but Moniwa thinks it’s only a matter of time.

“You look kinda stressed,” Sasaya says.

At the back of his mind, a small voice encourages Moniwa to thank Sasaya for pointing out the obvious. Yes, he’s stressed, no, he _doesn’t_ want to talk about it.

“We’re getting ice cream after practice,” Kamasaki says. “Wanna come?”

Moniwa can feel the blood draining from his face, can sense the look on his face before it comes.

“It’ll help you relax,” Sasaya says.

“I’m not stressed,” Moniwa says. It’s not a lie, really, if he conceptualises his issues as fear rather than stress, which isn’t much better, but it’s a start.

“Yeah, right,” Kamasaki says. “You look like you’re going to burst that volleyball.”

“Okay,” Moniwa says, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but not slackening his hold either.

Sasaya slaps him on the back and Kamasaki snorts out a laugh as they leave him to—to whatever he was doing—and head back to practice.

Moniwa finds himself on edge for the next hour. It’s not like he’s being led blindfolded into a dungeon. It’s just ice cream. All he needs to do is eat an ice cream and then he can go home and live out the rest of his life in awkward misery.

When practice ends, he doesn’t even know if he has the stomach for ice cream.

“Hey,” Kamasaki calls from the other side of the changing room, “you coming?”

“Yes!” Moniwa replies, because, does he really have any choice?

It’s a place just down the road from the school that Moniwa has seen heaps of upperclassmen going into after the final bell rings. He’s always thought it looked a little bit unattainable, that when he was in third year maybe he’d be cool enough to step over the threshold.

Kamasaki and Sasaya walk in like it’s nothing.

Mercifully, they choose a table off to the side once they’ve all got their orders. Moniwa sits and back and lets them talk—about schoolwork, about volleyball, about the cute girl in Sasaya’s class. It’s fine, Moniwa tells himself. He’ll get through this one laboured spoonful of green tea ice cream at a time.

“Hey, Moniwa,” Kamasaki says, all of a sudden. “How come you’re always so quiet in practice? You’re going to be our setter in a few months, you know.”

It’s funny that Kamasaki says _our_ setter, because he’s the only first year who made it straight onto the starting line-up. Sasaya’s a good spiker, but he’s still too short to really become part of the Iron Wall’s foundations.

“Maybe he’s nervous about it, idiot,” Sasaya stage-whispers, elbowing Kamasaki in the ribs.

“I _am_ nervous,” Moniwa says. “Kamasaki-kun, aren’t you nervous about being the only first year starter?”

“Not really,” Kamasaki says. “It’s just an opportunity to be on court. I’d look forward to that, if I were you.”

“Well, I’m not you,” Moniwa says, a little bit indignantly.

“That’s fine,” Kamasaki says, “but you’ll never get less nervous if you don’t put yourself out there more.”

Sasaya had been watching the conversation keenly, but now he leans forward and rests his chin on his tented hands. “He’s right, Moniwa-kun,” he says. “You’re a good setter, but you won’t be _our_ setter until you can engage with the team.”

Of _course_ he’s right—this is nothing new. It’s everything Moniwa’s been telling himself since he joined the club, the undercurrent of every way he’s found so far to berate himself. But there’s something different about hearing it from other first years. It makes him feel like he really _does_ need to work harder.

So, he says, “You’re both right.”

“I know I am,” Kamasaki says, flicking his tie over his shoulder and earning himself another jab from Sasaya.

“You’ll be fine,” Sasaya says.

Moniwa takes another spoonful of his ice cream and smiles, genuinely. Maybe, with these two by his side, he will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! Cry with me about these three!


	4. Day 4: Wins and Losses / Colour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love playing with perspective in my fanworks, so there's a bit of that in this chapter. There's also some silliness, because I'd like to issue a formal apology. But not too much. Most of this might make you sad like I made myself sad writing it. Enjoy!

* * *

  **8**

* * *

 

It’s over so quickly—a clean kill, no blood pouring from the wound, just stitches over a scar and phantom pain that isn’t going to make itself acutely known until later.

 _Oh_ , Moniwa thinks, _that’s it, then_.

Everything from the court to the changing rooms is fuzzy at the edges, like Moniwa’s somehow stumbled into an old film of his worst nightmare. Logically, he knows this shouldn’t be so hard to stomach. Their team hasn’t been this strong in years, and they’ve still got a lot of growing to do, but to lose in the second round to a team dominated by overachieving first years—it’s not pretty.

He hits the changing room and suddenly the air-conditioning from the corridors drops, leaving a chill in the air to match the mood. The third years don’t make eye contact while they change—in fact, the only person talking is Koganegawa, but even he’s not up to his usual pace. This isn’t what you expect when you come to a championship school, after all.

On the way out, Futakuchi stops Moniwa.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking, “you—you did well, captain. We couldn’t have done anything.”

“Spring High,” Moniwa says, finding the words on the tip of his tongue even though they’re not the ones he was looking for. “At Spring High, you’ll climb even higher—captain.”

Futakuchi gapes at Moniwa for a good ten seconds before dipping his head and covering his eyes. Moniwa doesn’t need to see the way his shoulders shake to know that he’s crying. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to, and sometimes it’s better just to leave people to themselves.

The bus ride back is quiet, and Moniwa indulges his worst thoughts. He replays the final moments of the match in exquisite detail, rewinds through each failed block, each freakishly quick strike until his temples hurt. He’s sitting beside Sasaya, who’s staring out the window and looks like he might be about to fall asleep.

Moniwa hears someone behind him say “next time”—it’s a thought that’s been rattling around in his head all day, because of course, that’s why this has left such an impression on him. There’s no _next time_ , no second chances.

The bus pulls into the school grounds and Moniwa lets everyone get off before him, leaving Sasaya to get jumpy in the window seat. So when Moniwa finally gets up, he lets Sasaya push past him, and doesn’t see him again for the rest of the day.

The whole team parts ways, after that. The school feels so silent even though there are people around, and Moniwa watches almost wistfully as Kamasaki, furious, takes to the gym with a volleyball under his arm. Futakuchi still can’t look anyone in the eye, and he’s straight to the train station. Moniwa lingers a bit, because he knows that once he leaves the gym area he’s not likely to go back.

He finds Aone waiting near the school gates, sitting on a bench and reading, and goes to side beside him. Aone looks up as Moniwa sits down, his eyes going wide.

“Hi, Aone,” Moniwa says. “How’re you going?”

Aone purses his lips. “You played well,” he says.

“Thank you,” Moniwa says, although he doesn’t feel it. “You did too.”

Aone looks away.

Moniwa likes Aone because he doesn’t talk much. He likes being able to say things without the same sort of snarky comment he gets from most of his other teammates. So, he takes the opportunity just to talk.

“It’ll be a long time before I get to play volleyball again,” he says. “I don’t know whether I’ll miss it. I think, if I do, I’ll try to play at university, but I haven’t decided.”

Aone, of course, does not respond.

“It’s hard, though, losing like that,” Moniwa continues. “To such a _young_ team, too. And after we’ve had so much time to become comfortable how we are—now you’re going to lose that stability. You have to build the Iron Wall again, from the ground up.”

Aone nods.

“Your lot is stronger than we were, anyway,” he says. “Everyone’s expecting great things from you. Us? They’ll forget about us.”

“ _We_ won’t,” Aone says quietly.

Moniwa smiles. “I—I’m glad for that much.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and background noise finally starts filtering back into Moniwa’s perception. It’s like someone’s lifted whatever it was that was suffocating his movements after the loss. Aone may be an intimidating wall, Moniwa thinks, but there’s something quite calming about him too.

“Thanks,” he says.

Aone nods again. “Spring High,” he says—and Moniwa’s reminded of the exact words he said to Futakuchi earlier.

“Yeah,” Moniwa says. “Then you’ll show them.”

 

* * *

**6**

* * *

 

By now, Aone has learnt not to look up when Futakuchi calls his name and says something that’s clearly trying to start trouble, like “Hey, Aone, you should go stand next to that small child and see how long it takes for him to drop his ice cream,” or the infamous “Hey, Aone, how many plastic snakes do you think it’ll take to fill Kamasaki-san’s sleeping bag?”

So, “Hey, Aone, check it out, I’m Koganegawa”—in the middle of art class—doesn’t phase him at all.

He keeps going with his painting—it’s not really his strong suit, but they’ve been working on still life paintings for a few weeks now, and Aone enjoys it, even though he really only took art because Futakuchi said they needed something relaxing in between all the maths and physics and chemistry. Art is just as messy as chemistry, though, and that’s not even counting all the times that Futakuchi has somehow managed to singe Aone’s hair.

“C’mon, Aone, _loooook_ ,” Futakuchi whines.

Aone sighs. He tilts his head up, and gives Futakuchi what he hopes is a convincing glare. Futakuchi has slicked back his fringe with black paint, which is all over his fingers and smudged on his forehead. The only thing Aone can think is _why_ would he want to do this to himself?

Almost in response, Futakuchi’s grin broadens and he sticks both his index fingers into the pot of paint, smearing a forty-five degree line over each of his eyebrows.

“Futakuchi-senpai, was that toss too high just now?” Futakuchi says, mimicking Koganegawa’s tone almost perfectly. “When Moniwa-senpai tosses, it’s more like— _gwaaah_!”

“Stop it,” Aone says, only raising his voice a bit louder than it usually is. He’s used to Futakuchi mocking people, but it’s in the middle of class, and people are starting to stare.

Futakuchi does not, however, heed this advice. He reaches up, fingers still coated in black paint, and parts his hair down the middle. “Now I’m Sakunami,” he declares, hunching his shoulders to seem shorter.

Futakuchi could never be Sakunami, despite how much black paint he’s running through his hair. It’s all over his ears, too.

Aone glances at the front of the class—the teacher’d left to get something and she’s still not back, but she could be back any moment, and Futakuchi’s going to be in so much trouble. Aone wants to tell him to stop, but Futakuchi sticks two fingers from each hand back into the paint and then drags it down the side of his face.

“Sideburns,” he explains. “You want to guess this one?”

Aone glares at Futakuchi.

“No? Okay, hold on.”

Futakuchi wipes his fingers on his apron and pulls another pot of paint towards him, this one yellow. He practically fills his hand with a pool of paint, and dumps it right on top of his head. The yellow bleeds in with the black, making it look

“Yes… ?”

Aone sighs. “Kamasaki,” he says, giving in. He can never resist Futakuchi for long.

“Okay, okay, who should I do next?” Futakuchi asks.

Aone stares at him, hoping it’s enough to get him to stop this ridiculousness. Futakuchi stares right back, his grin not even faltering. He grabs a pot of blue paint first, and dabs a bit on each eyelid. Then, he goes for red, loosely placing a circle on each cheek.

“You look stupid,” Aone tells him.

“Ah, you’re talking so much this lesson,” Futakuchi says. “To think, all it took was a bit of fun!”

Aone shakes his head.

“I should give myself some earrings too,” Futakuchi continues, pinching each earlobe and painting them a mess of colours. Aone’s about to intervene when he wraps his fingers around his neck, but Futakuchi pulls them away quickly and explains it as a necklace.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says. “Your turn. Who do you want to be?”

Aone’s pretty sure his eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. “No-one,” he says quickly, putting his hands out to discourage Futakuchi.

“You’ve got to be _someone_ ,” Futakuchi insists. “It’s no fun if I do this alone.”

Aone wonders what that means—up until now, Futakuchi’s been doing just fine on his own.

“If you don’t pick someone, I’ll draw something _naughty_ on your face,” Futakuchi says.

And Aone knows _exactly_ what that is, because ever since Futakuchi passed the Penis Game down to the first years, he’s been going on about liberation and openness and all sorts of things that don’t quite make sense to Aone, but which he’s happy to humour.

“I’ll give you the count of three,” Futakuchi says. “Three.”

Aone stares him down. He’s not losing this.

“Two,” Futakuchi says, dipping his finger into Aone’s pot of white paint.

Looking Futakuchi square in the eye, Aone manages to hold his gaze without blinking.

When he says “one,” Futakuchi draws out the word, making it slow as his finger approaches Aone’s face.

Aone stays perfectly still. If he doesn’t engage, he’ll be fine.

“Well, you had your chance,” Futakuchi says, leaning forward and drawing something on Aone’s forehead. When Aone gives him a _look_ , Futakuchi just laughs. “Eyebrows,” he says.

And of course, that’s the moment their teacher chooses to return to the room.

“FUTAKUCHI! AONE!” she shouts. “WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Futakuchi grins, holding out his colourful hands. “Oh _no_ ,” he says. “Looks like you’ve caught me red-handed.”

Aone groans.

“Both of you, to the vice-principal’s office,” she says. “And if I see you in my class again, I’ll—”

They don’t wait around to see what she’ll do. 

Aone has a lot of questions on the tip of his tongue as they walk down the empty hallways, but all that comes out is, “Why?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Futakuchi says. “I’m dropping art.”

He pauses, tugging at a strand of his paint-caked hair, and then laughs to himself.

“I guess you are, too.”

 

* * *

**4**

* * *

 

There’s a roar from the crowd, and Futakuchi feels it before he hears it, in Kamasaki’s arm around his shoulder—something he’ll bring up later for a good bit of emotional blackmail—and in the way the ground shakes as the team thunder towards him.

Of course—he hit the last spike of the match. It dawns on him that maybe he even hit the _most_ spikes that match. And maybe, now he can call himself the ace without getting laughed at or shouted down.

Each shout makes him feel like he’s flying, each hand slapped on his back the feathers in his wings. There’s a part of him, the part that keeps him from losing face, that tells him not to get so excited—it’s just one match, and there’s nothing cool about excessive emotional expression. But he decides to momentarily forget that he’s meant to act aloof, like he could have done this with his eyes closed, in favour of cheering just as loud as everyone else, and letting the moment sweep him off his feet.

They did well at Spring High, but they’ll do better at the March preliminaries. This is just the first match.

The part that Futakuchi always forgets is the part directly after the match, where they have to line up and shake hands with the other team—and, oh, Karasuno look _shattered_.  There are only eight of them all up, just first and second years, he supposes, whereas Datekou have already got next year’s first years, the ones with sports scholarships, training alongside them. One of them, a libero, is already on the starting team.

Having the nearly-first years around sort of felt like throwing the team into disarray, but it was nothing as bad as what must be happening at Karasuno. Of their eight, they only have one real middle blocker, so there were four spikers on court, none of them tall enough or powerful enough to get through Datekou’s blocks.

Some might call it an easy win. Futakuchi thinks a win is a win.

In the line-up, Futakuchi finds himself face-to-face with Karasuno’s ace—at least, Futakuchi _thinks_ he’s the ace. He certainly scored his side the most points of the match, even though that wasn't that many at all.

“Thank you for the game,” the spiker says, his voice blank.

“Thanks!” Futakuchi says. He’s about to add something like “We couldn’t have done it without you,” but Aone nudges him.

Maybe it isn’t the right time for that.

Now he wants to gloat, though, to relish in the exuberance he knows he’s earnt. Even though he acts so flippant about his own skills, he hates modesty, can’t sit still while people say “It’s nothing, really,” even when it means a lot to them. It makes him feel like a hypocrite, but he does it anyway.

When they’re off the court, it’s straight into planning mode for the next match.

“We’ll start with the same formation as the last match,” Coach Oiwake says, “Aone, Futakuchi and Moniwa in the vanguard. It frightened Karasuno from the get-go to have such tall players staring them down.”

Everyone’s always calling Aone frightening, but Futakuchi feels an odd swell of pride to have the same adjective applied to him. Lots of people find him intimidating, but that’s off the court. This is like he’s part of something bigger, more powerful— _legendary_ , even. They’re a team, even if the word _team_ covers everything from ganging up to make gifs of bums to email to Onagawa, one a week, each slightly different to the last, to having their hands round each others’ backs and wiping away tears after a match.

“How does it feel, huh?” Kamasaki asks when they break for lunch. “Looks like you’re finally becoming useful.”

“Is Kamasaki-san jealous?” Futakuchi says. “Soon, all people will be talking about are ‘those troublesome first years at Datekou,’ right?”

Aone doesn’t look too pleased to be described as troublesome, and something kind of scary flashes across Kamasaki’s face for a second before he goes back to looking just as ugly as usual.

“That’s right,” Kamasaki says, ruffling Futakuchi’s hair, “but those _troublesome first years_ had better remember the awesome second years who got them where they are!”

“Gah,” Futakuchi says, reaching up to push his hair back in place. “Maybe the third years,” he concedes.

“Don’t get complacent,” Moniwa says, coming to sit beside them. “We can’t go into the next match thinking we’re already the best we can be.”

“Speeches like that are why you’re captain,” Kamasaki says.

Moniwa blushes bright red, but he looks just as determined as ever. “With these first years,” he says, “and next year’s first years, we’ll—”

“We’ll… ?” Futakuchi prompts.

Moniwa shrugs. “I’ve got nothing.”

“I guess a pep talk can’t be perfect every time,” Futakuchi says. “Even Moniwa-san screws up.”

“I screw up all the time,” Moniwa says.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Futakuchi says cheerfully. “You’re part of the Iron Wall, after all.”

Kamasaki pulls a face. “Don’t say that. You’ll make him cry.”

“That can’t be helped,” Moniwa says. “Futakuchi, you’re already the star of the first match. I won’t ruin it for you by getting emotional.”

They glance up at the sound of Coach Oiwake calling out the end of their lunch break.

“You know what to do,” Moniwa adds.

As the team heads back into the gymnasium, Futakuchi overhears bits of conversation, passing mentions like whispers in a silent classroom—

“—Datekou, the team who beat, uh, Torino… in the first round—”

“—they’re tipped to be one of the top four, at least—”

“—with blocks like that, it’s easy to see why the other teams don’t have a chance against them—”

—and Futakuchi feels more proud of himself, and of his team, with every step he takes. By the time they reach the court they’re playing on, and he has time to take in the other team’s scared expressions, and to let the cheering from the stands wash over him, it feels like the atmosphere is in their favour.

It’s _powerful_ , and Futakuchi is at the vanguard of that power. For a moment, he thinks that whether or not they win, he’s still part of something incredible.

That passes quickly, though. Because a win is a win, and a loss is a loss, and Futakuchi knows which side he wants to be on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment!


	5. Day 5: Training Camp / Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who, me, power-writing and finishing a chapter at 1am? Never, I've _never_ done that before, what are you talking about?
> 
> (On that note, if you see any typos I've missed, please please point them out to me!)
> 
> Anyway, ficlet the first of this chapter is loosely time, ficlet the second is training camp. Enjoy!

* * *

**17**

* * *

 

Being back in the gym is strange, almost like walking onto the set of a film. Everything is exactly the same as Aone remembers it, but the people are different, and with them, there’s an entirely new atmosphere. The sounds of volleyballs falling and sneakers squeaking are familiar, and it anchors Aone.

At least he’s not the first one there—Obara and Sasaya are waiting by the benches. They went to the same university, like Aone and Futakuchi, so they’ve probably kept in touch better than some of the others.

“Aone,” Sasaya greets. “You look taller.”

Aone frowns. “Do I?”

“I _think_ he’s joking,” Obara says. “But you can never tell with short people.”

Sasaya elbows Obara in the ribs. “Watch it. I’m still your senior.”

“Sure,” Obara says, rolling his eyes. “Aone, it’s been—how long?”

It’s been at least a year since they last caught up, but Aone just shrugs.

“Are you still playing for Sendai City?” Sasaya asks. “I heard they’re doing well lately.”

“We are,” Aone says, letting just a bit of pride into his voice. After having to fit in with a new team at university, moving back home and playing with another group of strangers was nothing.

“That’s so cool,” Obara says, his voice calm but his eyes glinting. “I’m just playing with a neighbourhood team.”

“Yeah,” Sasaya says, “and we’re shit.”

Obara looks a little bit uncomfortable at that, and Aone wishes he’d grown some social skills when he left high school so that he could deftly change the topic like he’s seen Futakuchi do so often. Thankfully, Moniwa shows up a beat later—he’s always been good at social things.

“Sorry I’m late!” Moniwa says. “ _Am_ I late?”

“We’re the only ones here,” Sasaya says, amused. “Obara and I were taking bets on who’d show up last.”

“Currently our money’s on Mister Tokyo,” Obara says.

Moniwa sighs, but he’s smiling. “Futakuchi’s probably still on a train. He’ll show up fashionably late with that face that means he’s not sorry at all.”

Futakuchi proves them all wrong by arriving next.

“Sorry I’m early,” he says, “I know you were probably expecting me to burst in late and steal the show.”

“Steal the show?” Sasaya teases. “These kids know Sendai’s players better than Tokyo’s. Have you seen that one blocker always glancing over at Aone when he thinks we’re not looking?”

Aone almost jumps at that—he hadn’t been paying much attention to the players. In fact, he’d actively been trying not to because of how unsettling it was. But when he looks out of the corner of his eye, his gaze lands on a kid who’s probably a bit shorter than him, clutching a volleyball and jumping like a startled deer.

“See?” Moniwa says. “You’re a role model now.”

Aone isn’t sure how to internalise this. He knows what it’s like to have fans—his first girlfriend was a fan of his university team, after all—but he’s never thought seriously of someone he’s never met idolising his playing. It’s exciting and terrifying, and it’s suddenly like there’s a lot of extra pressure on him.

“That kid’s about to go up against a terrifying wall,” Sasaya says.

“It’s okay,” Futakuchi says, “we’ve got Sakunami to counteract that.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Obara asks.

“He’s teaching full time now,” Moniwa says. “My nephew’s in his after-school volleyball club, so maybe he’s running behind with the kids.”

Futakuchi snorts at that. “That’s inexcusable. Someone ought to tell him the Iron Wall comes before everything else.”

Sakunami shows up not much later, though—now, they’re only waiting on Kamasaki.

“It’s fine,” Futakuchi says. “We can play without Kamasaki-san.”

“It’s funny that you still call him that,” Obara says. “He’s hardly your senior anymore.”

“To be honest,” Sakunami says, “I’m still getting used to spending time with people who don’t call me Sensei.”

“It’s reflexive, okay?” Futakuchi says, a second too late for it to be convincing.

The Datekou students break for water, and Coach Oiwake—looking barely a day older—approaches the gathering of alumni. He scowls at them, but it’s a scowl Aone knows well, and he instantly feels far more comfortable with the situation. He hasn’t stopped feeling jumpy since the student staring at him was pointed out.

“Where’s Kamasaki?” Oiwake says, instead of any greeting. “I’m calling this off if he doesn’t show up.”

“Ah, come on,” Sasaya says, and Aone’s envious of how casually he can talk to their former coach, “just get one of the students to block.”

“That’s not the point of this exercise, though,” Moniwa says quietly.

“I’ll call him,” Sasaya offers. He steps away from the crowd, pulling out his phone—the same one he had in high school, Aone notes.

Looking around the gym, there are now more students looking at them, some of them with curiosity and some of them with something Aone recognises as trepidation. He’d be scared too, if he were in their position. He’s scared enough as it is in _his_ position. Moniwa looks scared too, and Obara a bit tentative, but Futakuchi is bouncing on his heels, eager to play.

And while Sasaya is on the phone, Kamasaki thunders into the gym, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear.

“I’d love to hear your excuse,” Oiwake says flatly.

“Sorry,” Kamasaki says, cringing. “Clients being shitty.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Oiwake says. “Get warmed up and get over here when you’re done.”

At least Kamasaki arrived straight in gym clothes—Futakuchi has to dash off to change out of his fancy suit, but he’s back in no time warming up with the rest of them.

“Hey, Kamasaki,” he says, “everyone thought _I’d_ be late. Goes to show, doesn’t it?”

Aone thinks Sakunami whispers to Moniwa, “He didn’t use - _san_ this time,” but he can’t be sure he heard correctly.

“Goes to show _what_ , you brat?” Kamasaki asks.

“Tut tut,” Futakuchi says. “You can’t call me a brat anymore. I’m _famous_ now, or hadn’t you heard?”

“Famous in what country?” Kamasaki shoots back.

“I get it,” Futakuchi says. “You’re jealous. It’s okay. Not everyone can be on the covers of sports _and_ fashion magazines. I understand your—”

Kamasaki punches Futakuchi in the arm. “Shut _up_!”

“You’re in some magazines too, huh, Aone?” Sakunami asks.

“Just volleyball ones,” Aone admits.

“Really?” Obara asks. “That’s still cool.”

Once they’re done stretching, Oiwake calls them over and gets them to line up as they would before a match.

“This,” he says, “is our school’s starting team from seven years ago. They were a strong, coherent unit. An Iron Wall.”

Aone stands up a bit straighter at that. He notices the student who’d been watching him press a hand to his mouth.

“You,” Oiwake continues, “are at a disadvantage with experience. Their tallest blocker plays for Sendai, and their ace spiker plays for Tokyo. You don’t have any national level players—not even top five. The difference is, you’ve been playing together all year. These seven haven’t played together since high school.” He pauses, smirking. “Let’s see who wins.”

“Ready, captain?” Futakuchi whispers, nudging Moniwa in the arm.

Moniwa looks ready to burst with pride when he answers, “Ready.”

They circle up and put their hands together. Aone doesn’t register who, but somewhere in the circle there’s a quiet “Go, go, let’s go!”

Aone goes at it with all he’s got.

 

* * *

**10**

* * *

 

The sky is dark outside, the room quiet except for someone’s snoring—Moniwa thinks it’s probably Koganegawa, but he’s too polite to confirm his suspicion. Instead, he gets up quietly and tiptoes making sure not to step on any futons, and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

When Moniwa gets out of the toilet, he hears the shower running in one of the stalls—he hadn’t heard it when he went in, but he could just not have been paying attention. He hadn’t noticed anyone out of their futons, but it was dark, he tells himself. This is not just some stranger in the showers. Absolutely not. Moniwa is _not_ going to freak out and this is _not_ a horror movie.

He clears his throat. “H-hello?”

“Oh,” comes the response from behind the stall’s door. “Moniwa-san, is that you?”

Moniwa’s shoulders slump. “Futakuchi. I should have known.”

“Yeah,” Futakuchi says. “I could barely get to sleep. I guess it’s the atmosphere, you know?”

“That or Sasaya’s ghost stories,” Moniwa says.

“Those are terrible,” Futakuchi says. “He’s not scary at all.”

Moniwa decides not to mention, then, that he tries his best not to pay attention to Sasaya’s stories, because he’s so easily scared.

“So what are you doing up?” Futakuchi asks.

“Just going to the bathroom,” Moniwa says. He’s quiet, for a moment. “And I wasn’t really sleeping, either.”

“Ah,” Futakuchi says, like that answers everything, like it makes perfect sense for Moniwa to have been wide awake at training camp in the middle of the night. It’s not as weird as Futakuchi having a midnight shower, after all.

“What’s it like being here?” Futakuchi asks. “You know, even though you’re not—”

“At Spring High,” Moniwa says, “you asked us to be your training partners. We take that very seriously, you know.”

“It’s only a weekend camp,” Futakuchi says. He sounds like he’s having trouble justifying it to himself.

“I— _we_ want to help wherever we can,” Moniwa says. “Pass down whatever wisdom we have.”

There’s silence, then, except for the sound of the water in the shower splashing on the tiles.

“I bet you have a lot,” Futakuchi says. “I’m still—”

He stops. Moniwa doesn’t know what to say. He knows he needs to let Futakuchi finish this sentence on his own terms.

“I don’t think I’ve settled as a captain yet,” Futakuchi finally says. “You’re watching us play—do you think I’m, uh, any good?”

“It’s not about whether you’re good,” Moniwa says, choosing his words carefully. “You know you’re one of the best players on the team, and god knows you don’t need any more confidence. You’re handling the role well, I think.”

“Huh,” Futakuchi says. He seems  a little disappointed. “That’s it? Just _well_?”

“What do you want me to say?” Moniwa asks, laughing. “Do you want me to tell you that you’re no good and that we should’ve given the role to Onagawa?”

“Ugh,” Futakuchi says, “that’s not even a _funny_ joke. I just meant—if you had any advice… ?”

Moniwa shrugs. “I was never—”

“ _Don’t_ say you weren’t a good captain,” Futakuchi says, and there’s a loud splash to accompany his words, “because you were, and you know it.”

 _Do I_ , Moniwa wonders. His captaincy was racked with self-doubt and the pervading sense that he couldn’t handle the responsibility he’d been given. He was always worrying, always stressed, and as much as he focuses on the good memories, the times when it was _so_ worth it, he still can’t shake that inadequacy.

Futakuchi—now _he’s_ a people person. He doesn’t seem responsible, but he doesn’t need to act the part—the fact that he comes off so carefree is why he’s perfect to give the rest of the team a good feeling before a match. But he can be serious too, and he’s remarkably dedicated to volleyball in a way that Moniwa will never be.

He wishes he could put all of this into words.

“I might have been,” he says, “but you’ll be a better one.”

“That’s not true,” Futakuchi says. “I’m not—”

It hits Moniwa then that Futakuchi is probably just as anxious as he was, that he feels just as inadequate. To _really_ give him advice, Moniwa needs to stop comparing them to each other, even though they’re more similar than he’d thought. Now, he knows what Futakuchi needs to hear.

“Maybe not yet,” he says. “But you’ll get there, if you work hard at it.”

He hears Futakuchi taking a deep breath. “Yeah,” Futakuchi says. “Thanks, Moniwa-san.”

“Any time,” Moniwa says. “Although maybe next time you can wear some clothes.”

Futakuchi _shrieks_ , and there’s a bang against the shower stall’s door. “Fuck!” he yelps. “Moniwa-san, don’t breathe a _word_ of this.”

“You think _I’d_ want to admit that I had a midnight conversation with you while you were—”

Moniwa stops, stumbling over the word “naked.” He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. Futakuchi gets it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he says instead. “Captain.”

“Well,” Futakuchi says, whatever moment they were just having dead and buried, “you certainly won’t be seeing me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that last one was initially going to be angsty? Lol @ past me, everything I touch turns to Ridiculous. Please leave a comment!


	6. Day 6: Schoolwork / Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of an exhausting chapter to write, haha... emotionally, mostly. The first ficlet is schoolwork and a bit of travel, and the second is kind of travel with like maybe one mention of schoolwork. Also, I got to really indulge in some untested friendship dyanmics as well as going all-out in my comfort zone! So that was fun. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**7**

* * *

 

“What’s cos-thirty again?” comes a voice from near the back of the bus.

There’s a reply from the front—“Root three on four!”—and Sasaya pushes his headphones firmer onto his ears. He is absolutely not getting involved in this. It’s Koganegawa’s fault for leaving his homework to the last minute, or, technically, the day before, but the sentiment is the same.

It’s a few weeks before Inter High, and they’re on the way to a practice match with Ougiminami which’ll round out the training season. The bus ride isn’t too long, but for some reason the first years have taken it upon themselves to pass the time by doing homework—or in Koganegawa’s case, his remedial maths assignment, which has been causing Sasaya no end of hell for the past three weeks.

Ever since Koganegawa caught on that Sasaya was decent at maths, he’s been twitchy around him. There’s no way Kogangegawa would outright ask him for help—no, that would be too forward—but he’s taken to hovering around outside the changing rooms, or showing up in front of Sasaya’s classroom at lunch and saying hello and then giving him a pitiful stare.

Sasaya has not relented.

On top of that, there’s Fukiage doing his art homework, which involves a thousand-word essay on the social significance of cubism, and which is not going well at all. Futakuchi gleefully informs Fukiage that he’s dropped art, so of course he can’t help at all—Fukiage doesn’t even realise that this still means Futakuchi did it all through first year and probably wrote the exact same essay.

Sakunami is not so foolhardy as the other two. He declares that he gets headaches if he reads on buses, so he’s got headphones on and is apparently listening to an audiobook that he needs to read for literature classes. Sasaya admires the dedication, given that Sakunami is sitting next to Koganegawa and successfully blocking out every question that might be thrown his way.

And knowing that he’s not going to be helping any first years any time soon, Sasaya’s been sitting back and relaxing. Then Kamasaki nudges him.

“Hey,” Kamasaki says. “Give the kid a hand, Sasaya.”

“No,” Sasaya says, slipping his headphones just off one ear. “I’ve seen hell, and I’m never going back.”

“Implying that team bus rides are hell?” Kamasaki asks.

“On the contrary,” Sasaya says. “You know I’m normally such a fan of their unique ambience.”

“So, Koganegawa is hell,” Kamasaki says, raising an eyebrow.

“You said it, not me,” Sasaya says.

Kamasaki sighs. “If you help him out, he’ll shut up.”

“Not my fault you didn’t bring headphones," Sasaya says. He covers his ear again. Kamasaki says something which Sasaya, of course, can hear, but he pretends to not to, smiling and shrugging.

It’s fine for the next few minutes. Then Kamasaki leans over the aisle and nudges Moniwa. Sasaya watches their exchange out of the corner of his eye, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Kamasaki’s got Moniwa’s attention, though, and in a moment Moniwa’s descended on their two-seater, hands on his hips.

Sasaya reluctantly slips his headphones around his neck. “Yes?”

“I hadn’t said anything yet,” Moniwa says.

“Right,” Sasaya says.

“While I’m here, though,” Moniwa says sweetly, “Koganegawa’s really struggling with his maths assignment.”

Sasaya slumps lower into his seat. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?”

“It’s only about half an hour until we get to Ougiminami,” Moniwa reasons. “Surely half an hour won’t hurt?”

“It won’t," Sasaya admits, letting all his breath leave him. He’s disappointed in himself for giving in so easily, but he supposes he should actually be more disappointed in himself for putting this off for so long.

Besides, if he does this now, that’s his good deed for the year.

He climbs over Kamasaki and makes his way down the back of the bus. As he passes Futakuchi and Obara, Futakuchi dangles himself over the armrest and rests his chin on his hands.

“Is this surrender, Sasaya-san?”

Sasaya just gives him a Look. Futakuchi doesn’t stop grinning.

“How about you help Fukiage with his art essay, then?” Sasaya snipes.

Futakuchi frowns. “How about you keep walking?”

Sasaya groans, giving up on that particular battle, and finally coming to a stop where Koganegawa is staring in anguish at a sheet of paper—when he sees Sasaya, though, he looks up with a radiant grin on his face, and, okay, Sasaya feels a little bad.

“Sasaya-senpai!” Koganegawa says. He goes straight back to nervous, though. “Are you, uhh...”

“Yeah,” Sasaya says. “You need help with maths?”

“Yes, yes!” Koganegawa says, hyping himself up again. “It’s trig! You can do trig, right?”

“I can do trig,” Sasaya confirms.

He crouches down in the aisle, settling in for the long haul. It’s not as painful as he’d predicted, though—Koganegawa is quiet and patient while Sasaya explains things, and asks very few questions. Actually, the lack of questions worries Sasaya a bit, because it might mean that Koganegawa is just saying yes, he understands, because he doesn’t know how to phrase his confusion. But when it comes down to it, his answers to the questions become more comprehensible as the half-hour passes.

“I’m begrudgingly impressed,” Sasaya says. “You might just pass remedial maths at this rate.”

“Thank you, Sasaya-senpai!” Koganegawa says. “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends how much you helped me!”

“That’s not—” Sasaya begins, but cuts himself off quickly. “Okay, but if they want help, tell them it’s going to cost money.”

Koganegawa’s face falls. “Does that mean I have to pay you for this?”

“Hmm,” Sasaya says. “I’ll give you this one for free. Next time, it’s not going to come cheap.”

“How much?” Koganegawa asks immediately. “I’ll work two jobs! I’ll pay you however I can!”

“Make it dinner after practice for each lesson I give you,” he says. He can’t believe the words leaving his mouth, but he doesn’t think he’s going to regret this.

“Done!” Koganegawa says.

On the other side of the double seat, Sakunami slides off his headphones. “You know, Sasaya-san, I think you just made a deal with the devil.”

Sasaya thinks about every failing grade he’s ever got, about every match he’s lost with the team, about how he’s going to have to retire after Inter High. On that scale, helping out a first year once in a while doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

“I’ve seen hell,” he says. “Trust me, this isn’t it.”

 

* * *

**16**

* * *

 

It takes a few seconds for Futakuchi to realise that Aone spoke, and he’s kicking himself for not hearing, because now he’s going to have to make Aone speak again.

“What was that?”

Aone frowns. “I said, I miss them.”

“You’re going to have to elaborate on that one,” Futakuchi says.

“Our old team,” Aone says.

Talking to Aone can be a bit like pulling teeth, but at least now he’s getting straight to the point. And it’s not like Futakuchi doesn’t know what he means. Since they came to uni together, it made things a bit easier than total separation, especially given how much Futakuchi bawled when they lost their upperclassmen for real at the end of his second year—something he’ll never admit to _anyone_ , not even Aone.

“How come?” Futakuchi asks. It’s a stupid question, but it’s nearing midnight and they’re still sitting by the hotel pool, and the conversation is welcome after several hours of quiet—the closest they came to talking was Aone favouriting Futakuchi’s various twitter interactions from beside him, both of them on their phones.

And Futakuchi’s been craving this sort of late-night contact ever since a strangely fulfilling one a.m. deep-and-meaningful with Oikawa on the roof of their team’s hotel, which left him buzzing with the sensation of a weight lifting from the way they got on with each other.

It’s a while before Aone answers.

“We worked together then,” he says, “better than we do now.”

“We as in you and me or we as in the team?” Futakuchi asks.

Aone thinks about that for a moment. “Both.”

Futakuchi narrows his eyes at that. “You’re still my best friend, though. Right?”

Aone nods.

“Sooooo,” Futakuchi says, pressing the point, “why don’t you think we’re working together as well as we used to?”

“Just a feeling,” Aone says.

Futakuchi folds his arms. “That is way too vague, Aone. You’re going to have to use some more words.”

It looks like Aone’s kind of uncomfortable with the subject, though, because he closes his eyes slowly, and when he opens them he’s looking in the other direction. Futakuchi doesn’t like it when Aone gets like this—it’s so uncommon, too, because Aone isn’t a particularly introspective person, but when he gets stuck thinking about something he can think himself in circles.

He’s not as open as Futakuchi, either. Futakuchi doesn’t have a filter most of the time, and is usually more than happy to let the entire world know what’s going on in his mind. No-one has any clue what Aone’s thinking at any given moment, unless they’ve spent enough time around him like Futakuchi has.

So, he takes the burden of articulating Aone’s thoughts upon himself.

“You’re worried that we aren’t a proper Iron Wall anymore, right?” Futakuchi says. “Even though there are, on average, taller players here than back home. You’re worried that transplanting the dynamic the two of us have into a different setting has changed it irrevocably, and that we’re never going to play together in the same way.”

Aone doesn’t respond.

“You’re probably also homesick,” Futakuchi adds. “Which, okay, I get that—I guess your tiny dorm doesn’t help either, does it?”

“The bed is too short,” Aone says, his voice so deep it’s barely audible.

“Yeah,” Futakuchi says. “Have you spoken to the RA about it yet?”

Aone shakes his head.

“If you never talk to people, nothing will ever happen,” Futakuchi says.

“It’s not—” Aone begins, “not that easy.”

“I know,” Futakuchi says. “Want me to talk to him for you when we get back?”

Aone nods, twisting his fingers together.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says, “what else? Is it that we don’t have classes together anymore? That I can’t help you with your homework?”

One corner of Aone’s mouth turns down.

“No, that can’t be it,” Futakuchi says, “because at least we still see each other at volleyball practice, right? And if we don’t have volleyball on, we find other reasons to hang out. Like movie night.”

Aone’s mouth settles back into its normal line.

“Hey, we still haven’t done a horror movie since we moved to Tokyo,” Futakuchi says. “It’s your turn to choose next time, isn’t it?”

Aone nods. “I’ll think of something.”

“Great!” Futakuchi says. “I still don’t know what’s at the core of what’s bugging you, though.”

Aone almost shrugs. “Do you need to?”

“Duh,” Futakuchi says. “You’re my _best friend_ , remember? That’s like, a full-time obligation. I’m required to know absolutely everything about you at all times.”

Turning his head, Aone gives Futakuchi a look.

“Sorry,” Futakuchi says, “I don’t make the rules.”

They sit in silence for a while. Futakuchi can hear some arguing from a nearby hotel room, and a car pulling up on the other side of the pool area.

“You wanna go swimming?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Didn’t bring swimmers,” Aone says. He looks at the pool. “Or towels.”

“Towels are for the weak,” Futakuchi says, getting to his feet and pulling his shirt over his head. “Do you intend to be remembered as one of the weak, Aone?”

Aone stays firmly seated in the deck chair, indicating that, yes, he’d much rather be weak than shirtless on what is admittedly a very cold night.

“Oh well,” Futakuchi says. “Your loss.”

He’s about to take even more clothes off and execute a spectacular dive into the still pool when he works it out.

“It’s the switch, isn’t it, from being the oldest to the youngest?”

Aone looks away. That’s a yes.

“You’re worried that no-one’s impressed by us here. That we’re not working that well anymore because we’ve become underwhelming, and settled into it too easily. That we should fight harder to make people notice us. Right?”

“Right,” Aone says. “And, I miss our old gym.”

“That can’t be helped,” Futakuchi says, putting his shirt back on. “But we _can_ fight, you know?”

He stares at Aone until he gives in and answers.

“Yeah,” Aone says. “I know.”

Even though they only ranked in the top sixteen of the tournament they came here to win, there’s still time for improvement. They’re still first years at university, and they’re still adjusting to their new team. Futakuchi knows he doesn’t work perfectly with this new lot yet—it’d be stupid to expect that—but he also hadn’t realised how Aone felt about it either. He feels like he’s let his best friend duties slip, just a bit. Now, all he has to do is make up for it.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow—and the next day, and whatever—let’s get noticed.”

Diving loudly into a hotel pool at midnight probably isn’t the best way to get noticed—instead, Futakuchi promises to pick himself up, to stop being complacent, to become the person who went from “carefree” one tournament to “uptight” the next. And since he overworked himself so much at high school, this time he knows better, and he knows what to change.

He knows he’s not alone. And that’s what’ll get him noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably a good time to mention that the vast majority of my non-AU stories all tie together in the same universe. So if you kind of got some déja-vu vibes from that last one, it's because you've read a story I wrote about the plane trip to that particular tournament. I really should stop making everything so interlinked because I like my stuff to be stand-alone too (and I think this is?!) but also I value continuity far too much. Oops.
> 
> Please leave a comment!


	7. Day 7: The Iron Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! The end of what's been a long but fantastic week! Thank you to everyone who's jumped into this so eagerly and participated in Datekou Week, and thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting, or who will be in the future! We've been so overwhelmed by how well it's gone. I hope you've all enjoyed this, and will continue to enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**14**

* * *

 

Not for the first time this week, Aone is starting to drift off in class. It’s frustrating, because usually he pays such good attention. He’s known for his focus, so finding it slipping through his fingers is strange and unsettling. He tries to lock back into what the teacher is saying, but nothing’s happening.

From behind, he feels a rolled-up wad of paper hit the back of his neck, right in the middle. Futakuchi does this sometimes, mostly because he’s bitter that Aone wasn’t automatically seated in the back row, and that _he_ should be the one stuck behind someone so tall. Aone ducks his head down. It’s not as though Futakuchi isn’t already sitting sideways in his chair, left arm hanging off the edge to keep up his not-too-disobedient-but-just-enough-to-be-cool image. He can probably see just fine.

Giving up on focusing on class, Aone instead tries to zero in on his own thoughts. He’s not usually like this, but he’s caught on a memory, something that was said to him a long time ago and hasn’t left him since.

It was Moniwa, after their disastrous Inter High loss in second year—he told Aone and Futakuchi how everyone has such higher hopes for them, how his generation was no good, how they’d go on to do great things as the Iron Wall.

At the time, Aone thought it was daft. He had so much respect for Moniwa and the other upperclassmen that he couldn’t see how anyone else wouldn’t agree. Now, if reluctantly, he can see the awkward truth in Moniwa’s words. After Aone became a third year, their team had been invited to more exhibition matches and practice matches with better schools, and even with universities. They’d conquered old rivals and sparked new rivalries. They were stronger than ever, winning back their place as one of the top four teams in the prefecture.

And that—Aone had thought that was just the natural progression of things, that teams grew stronger with time. Now, he’s not sure.

He and Futakuchi, in particular, have been visited by scouts from universities across the country. Obara had a couple of people talking to him too, from local universities. Nametsu once joked that maybe she’d get scouted by a management firm for putting up with them for so long.

It’s odd for Aone to think about parting from all of them. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go—doesn’t even know if Futakuchi will choose the same place that he does, given that they’ve agreed not to talk about it and then find out later.

He’s worrying a lot more lately, just about small things. He’s never been like this, and he hopes it passes soon, because he doesn't want to be like this much longer.

What’s worse is he barely notices when class finishes—he’s shaken out of his thoughts by Futakuchi aiming another wad of paper at his back. This is a whole scrunched up sheet, not just a torn-off corner.

“Earth to Aone,” Futakuchi says. “School’s out.”

Aone wonders when it became the end of the day. “You go ahead,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the gym.”

Futakuchi frowns. Suddenly he looks very out of sorts. “Aone,” he begins, “uh…”

Aone tilts his head to the side, pushing back in his seat.

“We retired from volleyball last week,” Futakuchi says, putting his hand up to his forehead and rubbing his temples. “You’re not, uh—you remember that, right?”

Aone sighs. He only forgot momentarily—usually Futakuchi would tease him to no end about this sort of thing, but now he just seems concerned.

“I remember,” Aone says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Futakuchi says, rolling his eyes. “You zoned out. I get it. You’re not the same without volleyball.”

When Futakuchi puts it into words like that, it sounds so simple. Aone always knew he was invested in volleyball, that somewhere along the line it had stopped being something he did because he was tall and started being something he does because he _loves_ it, so quitting the club—even as a temporary gap between high school and university—has really messed with him.

“It’s alright,” Futakuchi says. “We’re still invited to movie night next week. I heard Sakunami’s choosing, which means trouble.”

Aone nods. Sakunami likes scary things. He thinks it’s hilarious how fake it always looks. Aone is more than happy with that.

“Hey,” Futakuchi says, “how about we go to the gym anyway, and catch up with everyone? Koganegawa has probably started a fire and a flood without us there to clean up after him.”

“He’s alright,” Aone says.

Futakuchi’s lips quirk into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, “he is.”

“Okay,” Aone says. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, vice captain!” Futakuchi says, wearing that I Was Right All Along grin.

They fall into step as easily as ever on their way to the gym. Maybe, it won’t make sense to Aone just yet, but he’s getting there.

 

* * *

**9**

* * *

 

Sometimes, Nametsu wonders if she’ll ever get tired of acting the big sister to this unruly troupe of tall boys with bad personalities—sometimes, though, there’s nothing else she’d rather do.

One of the perks of the job is that she’s in charge of waking them up before practice every morning. Of course, it’s not _literally_ waking them up, because they all know that if they’re late to practice then Coach Oiwake will make them run extra laps, but there are a few who aren’t what you’d call morning people.

So, Nametsu makes them do extra laps, or jumping jacks, or puts on the aerobics videos her cousin watches and makes them dance. Actually, the more gymnastic exercises are her favourites, because she gets to see who’s most flexible—Aone can bend and twist remarkably well for someone so bulky—and who can’t even touch their toes—that’s Koganegawa, but only because his legs are so long.

Most times, Aone is excused from Waking Up, because he _is_ a morning person—it’s a pity that he never gets much of a chance to put the rest of the team to shame.

This morning, though, Nametsu needs him. She’s got something fun in mind to wake the team up—and since Inter High, they _need_ something fun. Thankfully, Aone is not hard to persuade.

Nametsu spots him coming in through the gym doors, earlier than everyone else, and waves him down. “Aone! Have you got a minute?”

He nods obligingly, lowering his bag from his shoulders.

“I know you don’t usually do the morning exercises with me, but would you break tradition for a day?” she asks.

Aone nods again, hoisting his bag back up, and follows Nametsu out to the grass where the soccer team usually practices. It’s their morning off, and Nametsu chose her timing well. Within minutes, the rest of her early morning team arrives and sits on the grass in front of her.

“What’s it to be this morning?” Obara asks.

“Please not laps,” Onagawa says. The paper cup of coffee in his hand is probably his second.

“Not laps, don’t worry,” Nametsu says. “Instead we’re doing a team-building exercise!”

Onagawa groans. “Why does that sound even less appealing than laps?”

Nametsu gives him her best frown, even though she knows she can’t hold the face for long. “Trust me, you’ll enjoy this.”

She counts how many people she’s got before her—six, which is _perfect_.

“Well?” Onagawa prompts.

“Be patient!” Nametsu says. She clears her throat for the speech she prepared the night before. “You are part of the Iron Wall, all of you, and that doesn’t end at being able to block your opponents. Part of being the Iron Wall is being able to support each other when it counts, mentally and physically.”

“Are we doing trust falls?” Koganegawa asks. “I want Sakunami-kun to catch me!”

“I don’t want that at all,” Sakunami mumbles.

Nametsu feels bad for him, but she presses on. “I’m glad you asked, Kogane-kun. The answer is no.”

“Aww,” Koganegawa says. “What, then?”

“This morning,” Nametsu says, “we’re going to build a human pyramid.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Sakunami says.

Futakuchi is the most enthusiastic about this. He leaps up and puts his hands on his hips. “I,” he declares, “will be the cherry on top.”

“Not while Sakunami’s here,” Obara points out sensibly.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Sakunami says, almost mournful. “This is not what I’m short for.”

“That doesn’t really make sense,” Nametsu says, “but we’ll see.”

She fixes her gaze on Aone. Aone stares back.

“I think we all know who’s at the bottom and in the middle,” she says.

Aone gets up meekly and chooses a soft patch of grass, kneeling down and spreading his palms flat to steady himself.

“Ah!” Nametsu says. “The rest of you should take note of Aone’s perfect posture. In fact, you should _all_ be more like Aone.”

“Impossible,” Futakuchi says. “Aone’s one in a million, you know.”

If Nametsu had to place bets, she’d say that Aone would be blushing, and grateful that his face is pointed towards the ground. She thinks it’s sweet how Futakuchi’s unfailingly amiable to Aone.

“Because he’s so huge,” Futakuchi adds.

Well, Nametsu thinks, it’s the sentiment that counts.

“Can I be on the bottom too?” Koganegawa asks, bouncing to his feet. “I’m already huge, but I want to be more like Aone-senpai!”

“That’s the spirit!” Nametsu says. “You can go on his left.”

As Koganegawa eagerly emulates Aone’s form, Nametsu eyes the rest of the boys. It’s between Futakuchi and Obara for the final spot on the bottom row. In the end, she thinks Futakuchi is probably stronger based on his spike strength, even though Obara has more muscle.

“Futaku—”

“Absolutely not,” Futakuchi says. “I told you! I’m going to be on top.”

Nametsu sighs. She makes sure it’s extra dramatic, so Futakuchi knows how much she hates him. “ _Fine_ ,” she says. “You can be on the _middle_ row. Obara?”

Obara nods, heading towards the growing pyramid. “I thought as much.”

“Obara’s taller than me, anyway!” Futakuchi says. “This makes way more sense.”

“I already said it’s _fine_ ,” Nametsu says. “Now you get to go on top of Kogane-kun and Aone.”

“Can’t I have Obara’s side instead?” Futakuchi protests.

“Don’t be so needy,” Nametsu says, “and do as you’re told.”

Futakuchi doesn’t put up much of a fight after that. Nametsu gets the impression that he never really minded where he was in the pyramid—he just acts out because he knows it’s what’s expected of him by now.

“Onagawa, that leaves you,” Nametsu says. “You can go on top of Obara and Aone.”

“I have no sense of balance,” Onagawa says. “This is _so_ not a good idea.”

“You can learn,” Nametsu says. “Come on. Your team needs you.”

Onagawa actually _does_ have very bad balance, and it takes a couple of tries for him to get in position, but when he does, it looks _impressive_. The wall is beginning to take shape, and Nametsu claps her hands together.

“Okay, Saku-kun—”

“Nametsu-san, I’d really rather not,” Sakunami says.

“Why not?” Nametsu asks, frowning. She’s put a lot of effort into this idea. She doesn’t want it to be ruined by an uncooperative libero.

“Um,” Sakunami says. “I’m… not too great with heights…”

“ _Oh_ ,” Nametsu says, feeling _awful_ for ever being annoyed at him. “Oh, Saku-kun, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Sakunami says. “There’s no way you would have known.”

“Hey, my arms are starting to hurt,” Futakuchi calls from the incomplete pyramid. “What are we going to do about this?”

Nametsu wracks her brain, trying to think if anyone else on the team would be willing to help out. But then Sakunami is standing in front of her, holding out his hand.

“I’ll help you up, Nametsu-san.”

Nametsu is pretty sure he sees just how red her cheeks go. It’s a good thing everyone else is facing the ground so they can’t see it. It’s a pretty neat idea, though, for her to be on the top of the pyramid. She’s always wondered what it’s like to be tall.

“Okay,” she says, taking his hand.

She chooses to step on Obara’s back instead of Koganegawa’s as she climbs up, and then places herself gently on top of Onagawa and Futakuchi. Onagawa is a bit wobbly, but he stays still, and once Nametsu is secure enough, she allows herself to lift her arms up and slowly raise herself so that she’s just kneeling on their backs.

It feels _incredible_. She’s never been so tall in her life. Down on the ground, Sakunami is beaming up at her.

“What do you think, Saku-kun?” she asks.

“I think it’s a real Iron Wall,” he says.

“Now that’s something I can be proud to be a part of,” Obara says.

“Nametsu-senpai,” Koganegawa says, “this was the best idea _ever_! Let’s do it again at training camp when everyone’s there! I feel so good that I could—”

Nametsu never does find out what Koganegawa could do, because what he _does_ do is fling his arms out and destabilise the entire pyramid. Futakuchi screams louder than she does as he falls, but he still manages to catch her, bearing the brunt of the fall. Onagawa just lands on Aone’s back. He makes a relieved sound.

“That’s a few new bruises to show off, then,” Futakuchi says. “Not from receives for a change.”

Still, when Sakunami helps Nametsu to her feet and she dusts off her arms, surveying the squirming pile of boys before here—yeah, she’s _definitely_ proud to be part of this Iron Wall.

 

* * *

**15**

* * *

 

“Um,” Futakuchi says. He doesn’t know how to begin. He doesn’t even know why he called Moniwa. Except, he does, and he doesn’t want to think about it, because that would be owning up to the fact that he still sort of felt the need to get reassurance from an upperclassman.

“I won’t pretend this isn’t surprising, you calling me up out of the blue,” Moniwa says. “I didn’t know you even had my number still.”

That, Futakuchi can explain. “I never delete contacts,” he says. “You never know when someone’s number will become useful.”

“Is this the blackmail you’ve been promising Kamasaki since your first year?” Moniwa asks.

“No comment,” Futakuchi says.

“So what’s happening?”

Futakuchi exhales into his phone. “Just wanted to catch up, I guess. Feeling nostalgic, and all that.”

“I wonder,” Moniwa says. “You’d have graduated by now, right?”

“Just over a week ago,” Futakuchi says. “It was, uh...”

“Don’t worry,” Moniwa says. “I cried at my graduation.”

“I didn’t cry!” Futakuchi says, and he hears laughter on the other end of the line. “Although I guess you don’t believe me.”

Moniwa’s laughter dies down. “Ah, I’m sure you’re telling the truth,” he says. “Well, I won’t ask you questions about your future. I’m sure that’s not why you called me.”

“What, you think I want to reminisce?” Futakuchi asks.

“Yes... ?” Moniwa tries.

Futakuchi hums. “Well, maybe,” he concedes.

It’s not like the last few weeks haven’t been a bit weird. Aone’s been drifting off more than usual, and Obara has already made a shortlist of neighbourhood volleyball clubs he can join if he doesn’t make it into his university’s. Onagawa gets twitchy whenever anyone reminds him that he’s graduated, and Nametsu’s been down in the dumps too.

“It’s only natural,” Moniwa says consolingly. “I was a mess after I graduated.”

“I’m not a mess,” Futakuchi says, his voice defensive even though he knows how Moniwa will take it. “It’s just nice to reconnect.”

“It has been a while,” Moniwa says. “Separation is odd, isn’t it?”

“It won’t be so bad,” Futakuchi says. “Uh, Aone and I got scouted by the same university, so we’ll be sticking together.”

“Oh!” Moniwa says. “Somehow, that makes me feel a lot better.”

Futakuchi smiles despite himself. “Yeah, me too.”

“No future talk, though,” Moniwa says hastily. “What about the team? Will they be alright next year?”

“Fukiage’s a good captain,” Futakuchi says. “He doesn’t talk much, but he does this thing where he can just _glare_ at someone and they know what they should be doing. It’s pretty impressive.”

“I suppose Sakunami’s helping out a lot?” Moniwa asks.

“He is,” Futakuchi says. “There are _four_ backup liberos now, counting the one coming in on a scholarship next year.”

“They come to Datekou thinking there’s always a place in the Iron Wall for someone short, I suppose,” Moniwa says.

Futakuchi has to laugh at that. “One of the first years is almost 180. He’s still adamant that he’s a libero.”

It’s good just to talk about this casually—when he was still captain, Futakuchi could only think of volleyball in terms of win or lose. He couldn’t afford to think about it any other way. Looking back on it now, though, he can calm down a bit. He wonders if this is how Moniwa felt.

“You’ll miss it,” Moniwa says. “I can’t pretend that you won’t. But, I think you’ll be alright.”

That’s why Futakuchi called—for that reassurance that he finds he can’t get anywhere else. Moniwa knows him frighteningly well. It’s probably because they’re so similar, despite being so different.

“Ah,” he says. “Thanks, Moniwa-san.”

“You don’t need to call me _san_ anymore,” Moniwa says, laughing a bit awkwardly. “It’s sweet that you were always so respectful, but we’re pretty much equals now.”

Futakuchi loses his breath— _equals_. He thinks that, maybe, that’s all he’s ever needed to hear.

“Welcome to the real world, I guess,” Moniwa adds.

“I’m still getting used to it,” Futakuchi says.

“I might regret this,” Moniwa says, “but you know, you can call me any time. Um, provided I’m not in class… ? Otherwise, it should be fine.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Futakuchi says. “If the only restriction is you not being in class—”

“Wait, no—”

“—I’ll call you when you’re in the bathroom, I’ll call you when you’re in the middle of getting hot and heavy with your cute uni squeeze—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Moniwa says.

“—I’ll call you in the middle of every awkward dinner with your family, preferably when you’re introducing them to your cute uni squeeze, and I’ll call you anywhere between the hours of midnight and five in the morning.”

“Futakuchi, you are _vile_ ,” Moniwa says. “How did I ever cope with you?”

“How did you ever cope _without_ me?” Futakuchi says. He’s relieved that his words seem to be coming easier now. Like talking to an equal.

“I’m doing fine just now, thank you,” Moniwa says. “Anyway, I have to go now.”

“Aw, how come?” Futakuchi asks.

Moniwa lets out a laugh. “I’m introducing my family to my cute uni squeeze. Talk to you later, Futakuchi!”

Futakuchi can’t help cackling. Between breaths, he manages to say, “Yeah, see you, Moniwa.”

As he hangs up, he calms down a bit. Calling Moniwa was definitely the right idea. He feels lighter than he did before, feels like he can take on anything now.

And life after Datekou doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always, _always_ keen to talk to people about Datekou, so hit me up on [tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com)! Or, leave a comment over here. I'm so exhausted and so happy to have made it to the end of this behemoth fic, and even though it got wildly out of hand, I had way too much fun writing it. I'm just bursting to talk about it :'>
> 
> (The fun game now is that all the ficlets here are neatly numbered, so if you like you can go back and read it in chronological order and see if my totally forced attempt at continuity makes sense!)


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